


Sense of Self

by DustySoul



Series: The One(s) Where Bucky is Non-Binary [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes doesn't remember, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Disabled Character, Closeted Character, Disability, Disabled Character, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderqueer, Identity Issues, Internal Conflict, Internalized Transphobia, Mental Health Issues, Non-Binary Bucky Barnes, Non-binary character, Physical Disability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Trans Character, non-binary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustySoul/pseuds/DustySoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He scrapes off the red star on his shoulder. He doesn’t replace it with anything else and thinks that Steve is disappointed. He has no idea what Steve would have wanted to paint in its place. He feels Steve looking, sometimes, on the occasions he wears sleeveless shirts. Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he wishes Steve would. The metal stays blank, scarred with key scratches.</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Bucky is trying to figure out who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I use he/him/his for Bucky throughout this entire fic. if the first chapter doesn't explain the "why" of that well enough please see this tumblr post I made 
> 
> http://dusty-soul.tumblr.com/post/117211390957/here-is-a-disclaimed-to-a-story-i-wrote-that-i
> 
> And also special thanks to the wonderful uminoko on tumblr for helping me flesh out the subplot between Natasha and Jamie. The help, knowledge, and enthusiasm they shared with me was more than I could have expected and hopefully makes this story so much better than it otherwise would have been.
> 
> And PSST  
> Chapters are so short in places that you should look at this as "entire work" and not chapter by chapter.

“He”. His mind still bumps up against the word like it bumps up against the words and phrases people don’t use anymore, or have come to mean something else, or aren’t supposed to be quoted in a Russian accent when his default one is Brooklyn.

Like he’ll be talking, or listening to someone else talk and then just bump up against it, losing his train of thought. It’s this knowing that the “he” he is saying means something different from the “he” everyone else is using. But it’s not something he can talk to Steve about, because there’s no sad smile in Steve’s eyes when it happens. Not like there is when he calls girls “dames” or his accent gets to thick to be understood.

It tires him to think about. So he stops and just lets the feelings wash over him in a wordless hum. It fades, as it always does, as everything always will. New feelings and thoughts bloom in the quiet of his mind. It’s as natural and as smooth as breathing.

There are other times, mostly in his inner dialogue when he’s trying to unstuck himself from a situation, trying to function in a haze of dissociation when “he” feels just right. When the word means exactly what it’s supposed to and nothing more and nothing less and there’s no one to misinterpret it. To needle him about it. And in those moments when it’s just his thoughts, his thoughts so far away from himself that “he” “him” and “his” feel more apart of him than his body and his left arm and the weights he feels around his joints his that keep him balanced.

 

He scrapes off the red star on his shoulder. He doesn’t replace it with anything and he thinks that Steve is disappointed by this. He wonders if maybe Steve wanted to paint the design of the shield, or the wing on the side of Steve’s helmet in over the star. The metal stays blank, scarred with key scratches. He feels Steve looking, sometimes, when his arms are bare.

 

He doesn’t quite like the almost phantom feeling of his hair brushing over his shoulders. He gets it cut, but only ever as short as his chin. He’s not so sure, about this one, but he suspects it also somehow manages to disappoints Steve. 

 

And he’s aware, that Steve wants him to be this “Bucky” person, that his not being the “Bucky” person some how hurts Steve. He also knows that Steve doesn’t want him to pretend. He not sure if it’s because pretending would hurt him or because it would hurt Steve. Or if pretending to be someone you once were but are now not is one of those things he’s just suppose to know not to do. (And suppose to know why he’s not supposed to do it.)

And Steve doesn’t want him to hurt himself. And he knows that trying to be Bucky will hurt him, just as he knows going back to HYDRA and the chair will hurt him.

 

The others stop calling him by that name when they notice his flinches. Natasha calls him “Sasha” (which pulls at his brain but not like being called “Bucky” pulls at his brain. So it is, somehow, okay. He doesn’t understand it.).

Tony calls him “Robocop” (A reference he’s resigned himself to never understanding). Almost everyone else calls him “Winter”. Steve hasn’t settled on a name and doesn’t call him anything. And that almost hurts worse, but not quite, because this is a choice. ( And it’s _his_ choice.) Granted, it’s a choice that came about when he was asked, “well, what do you want to be called?” one to many times, and punched another hole in another wall. But it’s his choice all the same.

_Call me nobody. God, Steve, I don’t- just please, don’t call me_ **_him_ ** _, I’m not him._

Sometimes JARVIS calls him nobody, when it’s just the two of them. It tugs a ghost of a smile from him, though he’s not sure he entirely understands it. That’s okay. He doesn't completely understand a lot of things. (Himself, for starters.)

 

He keeps a journal. He writes down all the things he remembers, for who he killed and how he did it, to what he had for breakfast this morning. He writes down his dreams as well, and what he does day to day. Then he goes down to one of the labs in the middle of the night and burns the pages under the roar of the exhaust hood.

He doesn’t write about what he feels, what he’s thinking. He wouldn’t have the words for it. He just breathes deep and takes it moment to moment. And somehow, it’s almost okay.


	2. Chapter 2

Someday’s hanging out with Steve is fine. Other days it makes him feel like a ghost. Today is one of those bad days. 

Steve pulls him from his thoughts with another, “Are you alright? You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m fine, I’m just not ready to eat yet.” He could tell by Steve’s reaction when he’d reached for the can of meat stew that this was one of the Bucky person’s favorite meals. He is currently trying to approach it with an open mind. That is very hard to do when Steve pulls him from his contemplation every few minutes.

“I think it’s cold by now.” Steve says, his face creases in concern.

He puts a finger in the bowl… and yes, it’s now room temperature. Huh, he must have been thinking for longer than a few minutes in between each interruption. Which is strange, because his thoughts weren’t going in circles. At least, not very much. He makes a note of it and barely bites on the tip of his tongue behind his lips. Its a small, grounding sensation no one is likely to notice.

Steve takes the bowl from in front of him, and sets it to reheat in the microwave. “So what were you thinking about?” He asks, using false cheer to hide the guardedness he feels.

And he can’t say, _I was trying to pretend that I didn’t know who you were, and that we’d never met before, and that I never existed before this moment. And that you weren’t sitting there, hoping that by eating some shitty can of soup I would transform back into the person you used to know._

So he's silent.

The microwave dings. Steve returns the bowl, now hot.

He takes a sip and is overwhelmed by the saltiness. He doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know yet, if he likes it. Steve is looking at him expectantly.

And that just sours everything, makes his stomach turn to lead. He makes something of a face and pushes the bowl away so suddenly some of the liquid sloshes onto the table. He retreats to his room and locks the door.

_It wasn’t Steve’s fault._ He tells himself.

He’s just standing in front of the close door and he wonders where that thought came from. It’s a fact that feels completely divorced from the reality at hand. It’s been a bad day. He’d spent a lot of energy trying to tell Steve that, just to have all the words not work. Maybe he needs to ask Sam. (He almost definitely needs to ask Sam.)

There is some small emotion in all this and he lies on his bed and tries to feel it, identify it. Every time he gets close it seems to grow at once, both more complex and more vague, until it has faded away completely. He is left feeling not much of anything. Other than exhausted. And maybe a little sad. He curls on to his side, looking at the clock. An hour has passed. He has two facts.

 

Fact:

In liking the soup he was … _something…_ Steve’s ideas of who he is. (Playing into, accomplishing, fulfilling, validating? None of the words seemed to fit quite right. They don’t mean what he needs them to mean.)

Fact:

In making a face at the soup, in pushing it away and storming off he’d given Steve more of a reaction than he’d expressed since the last time he punched a hole into one of the walls.

 

He still isn’t sure how he feels about any of this. Steve would have taken either of these outcomes as a success. Knowing this seems to burn a hole in his chest. He rolls onto his other side and curves his body around one of the big, fluffy pillows.

He drifts into an unsettled sleep.

He dreams he is punching Steve’s face, trying to destroy it as the years of torture and brainwashing start to shatter. Steve does nothing to stop him, just takes it. And he feels no emotion.

When he wakes up the first hints of orange color the horizon. He’s still in last nights clothes, on top of the duvet, covered in a cold sweat. He showers and changes, quick and mechanical and efficient.

And then he can remember what he actually felt during that memory. The most unsettling thing about that dream is that it doesn’t inspire an emotion. In his other dreams where he watches a man’s head explode through his scope, where he garrotes a child in her sleep, where he is ordered to hold prisoners down while the handlers take turns… 

He shivers.

In his other dreams there is always a sense of helplessness and fear and pain pervading them. Just like they do in his memories of those, or similar, events.

Just… for some reason, this isn't true for the one where he can feel Steve’s bones splintering against his knuckles.

He shivers again, and pulls a second hoody over the first even though he knows he’s not actually cold.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He almost wants to go away again, to back before Steve found him. Everything got so much more complicated after Steve found him. After what seems like a long time of feeling this way and having his thoughts keep circling back around to it he seeks out Sam.

Sam is reading in one of the common areas and he perches on the arm at the other end of the sofa until Sam gives him some sign of acknowledgement. Sam puts the book down and turns to face him.

“What’s up, Winter?”

“Why ‘Winter’?” He blurts, he doesn’t mean to. He means to ask about better ways to tell Steve he’s just having a bad day.

Sam looks at him, eyebrows knitting together.

He rolls with it, “You started everyone calling me that. So, why ‘winter’?”

Now Sam looks contemplative. “I didn’t want to just assign you some random name.”  He says.

“It seems nobody wants to.” He mutters, a feeling of bitterness wells up in him, small but unexpected. 

“Would you rather someone just assign you a random name?”

“Yes. I don’t like the ties to the past. But you’d all do it wrong.” He has no doubts about this and that is a strange feeling. When he has a name he doubts it. All his memories before the last wipe, he doubts them too. His opinions come with a small but noticeable doubt in himself. But in this he is sure. It is a conviction. It feels good to have a conviction, even if this one is a little mean.

Sam smiles, “Quite a pickle there.”

He hums, talking is going well and he decides to keep doing it. “I like ‘Winter’.” He mouths the name several times to himself, “Despite where it comes from.”

“Yeah?” Sam says it like he would say a name.

“What?”

“You just looked like you were going to leave me for a bit.”

“Winter?”

He hums. “I’m here.”

“May I touch you?”

He nods.

Sam lays a hand on his arm.

He bites the tip of his tongue.

“Where are you in that head of yours?” Sam asks after what feels like ages and no time at all.

“I don’t know. There aren’t words here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sad, a very certain kind of sadness.”

“You feel that way a lot?”

He nods.

Sam moves his hand in slow circles.

He breathes deeply, feeling himself start to hyperventilate every time he tries to speak not even sure what he wants to say.

“Easy.” Sam says, when tears prick his eyes.

“It hurts.” He whimpers. And it does, it’s not something he’s aware of until the words tumble from his lips but oh god it hurts.

“I’m here.” Sam says.

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could help.” Sam says and it’s an invitation to ask something. 

He shakes his head.

“Can I hug you?”

“Yes.” He says while shaking his head so violently his teeth click.

“Can I have a clearer answer?”

“Yes.” He says, and he holds his breath, waiting to see what Sam will do with that. The thought of being hugged right now brings further chaos to the hurricane of emotions choking him.

“Can I hug you?” He asks again.

“No.” He sobs, shaking his head. He curls into the sofa, curls into himself, sideways.

“Can I rub your back?”

“Yes.” He wheezes, nodding, body racked with mostly silent sobs. 

Sam comes to stand behind him, puts one firm hand in between his shoulder blades and applies pressure. He coos, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Go on, whatever you need, it’s okay.”

“It hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

 

“It’s going to be okay.”

_I know._


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t like crying. He _hates_ it, in fact. But he likes having his back rubbed and he likes feeling cared for when he’s vulnerable and hurting, even though it’s never right and never settles him like he knows it’s supposed to.

But he really likes having his back rubbed and being touched in general. Those are two things he has very strong opinions about. Having opinions is good.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve had found him. Or rather, he’d let Steve find him. Sometimes he worries that that's some sort of mixed message, especially since Steve’s the only person he won’t let touch him. He doesn’t know, doesn’t understand.

 

There had just came a day when he’d finished taken out  all of HYDRA that was personally responsible for the creation of the Winter Soldier and attacking the rest of the monster… was such an uncomprehendingly, overwhelmingly complicated thing to do that he lost both direction and drive and became an empty, hollow thing again. He thought maybe Steve could return those things to him. He’d been wrong. Very wrong.

He now spends everyday not knowing what to do, not knowing what the long game is.

 

“Do you want to join the Avengers, fight aliens beside us?”

“No.” He is so very tired of bloodshed, even bloodshed he chooses.

“Do you want to join us in taking down HYDRA?”

He lets out a long huff of air. And he honestly doesn’t know, so he says as much. It’s just, HYDRA is personal. And somehow he feels responsible, like he’s obligated to cauterized the stumps while Rogers cuts off the heads. But he is so very tired of bloodshed - of fighting, of being a weapon, a messenger of death.

“Hay, you still with me?”

“Yes.” He says without hesitation, eyes focusing on Steve. Steve's in a completely different position than he’d been before, very close to his face, not quite leaning into his space. He pushes back from the kitchen table suddenly.

“Buc-”

He growls, feeling panicked and wild, even as Steve cuts himself off.

 

 

 

“What do you want to do?” Sam tries later.

“I don’t know, I was honestly hoping Steve would be able to help me with that.”

“And?”

“And… it’s just so exhausting. I don’t want to have to think about fighting again. I don’t want to live for that, or, er whatever.”

“If I list some hobbies and stuff, could you tell me what you’d be interested in trying?”

He hums, “Yes.” He’s very satisfied with this plan.

“Cooking, gardening, learn to play an instrument, guitar maybe, making jewelry, making origami, learn tarot, wood carving, pottery, painting … knitting ... chess” Sam starts to loose his steam a little, struggling to come up with more hobbies.“juggling-”

“Gardening.” He says decisively, spurred into speaking by Sam’s faltering. “But we live in a giant skyscraper, so that doesn’t sound practical.”

“I’ll talk to Pepper about it.” Sam promises.

_Also, Steve’s the artist._ He doesn’t say, because it feels like the opportunity has past.

“You’ll fight HYDRA without me?”

“Yes.” Sam watches him for a reaction.

“I want to help, but I also don’t. It’s confusing.”

“Well, it’s quite the task. How about you get started on your garden and when opportunities to go after HYDRA cells arrive, we’ll ask if you want to come along?”

He nods. This seems like an acceptable compromise. Even if he plans to say yes every time it has become something he doesn't need to structure his life around. It’s not his only goal.

He’s never asked, “ _Am I needed to fight HYDRA?”_ Because he knows he is, everyone is, and it might still not be enough. It might never be enough. But he’s determined to do his best by this, because what else matters?  That’s the big scheme of things.

The day to day, the manageable goals that don’t scare him to think about? ... Well, soon he’ll have gardening. 

 

Pepper arranges for a rooftop garden to be built. She tells him that it’s green ( _Disconnect)_ and that she’s been meaning to do it anyway.

He plants flowers. So many flowers that when they all bloom his head feels dizzy with all the colors. 

 

“Why didn’t you plant any vegetables?” Steve asks, with a crease between his brow.

That would have been what the “Bucky” person did - plant vegetables, because it was practical. He doesn’t punch a wall. (He hasn’t in quite a while and he’s very proud of his current streak.) He doesn’t answer Steve either, just stalks to his room and locks the door.

 

 

Somedays, when it’s just him on the roof and he’s already taken care of all the plants, he snips flowers from the beds and braids them into his hair. When the flowers are about to go out of season he cuts them all and starts learning how to arrange them. Many of the offices get a vase. He lets Pepper pick the arrangement she thinks is the best as a thank-you and gives Sam a dethroned rose (since he doesn’t have an office) in similar gratitude. 

When he hands over the flower he wonders if Steve will feel excluded. Then has an emotion ( _irritation?)_ about it. Then thinks, “It’s not Steve’s fault.” And the whole mess is exhausting and he returns to his room.

 

 

And then it’s winter and there are no flowers. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you remember how cold our apartment was?” Steve asks him where he’s curled up on the sofa, watching the snow falling over Midtown.

_Yes._ But that’s not the answer to Steve’s question. He remembers, sharply, suddenly, _violently,_ the cold. And he’s not watching the snow anymore, not moving a muscle. He wonders, so far away he might as well be 70 years back in time and buried under a mile of snow, if he could even move if he tried.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder and he rams his elbow into Steve’s face without meaning to, without thinking about it. There’s a crunch. He’s on his feet without realizing how he got there. Steve’s on the floor, still. Time feels frozen, he really hope it actually is because he’s not breathing and Steve isn’t moving.

When Steve groans he can feel his heart hammering in his chest again. Then he’s in his room, without remembering how he got there either.

His head hurts, like he isn’t getting enough oxygen. He checks the door- locked. “JARVIS?” His voice sounds shaky and foreign to his ears, like someone else said the words and he spins around to see the speaker. The room, of course, is empty.

“Yes, Soldier?”

“I-” He licks his lips, “What-- Is Steve okay?”

“Captain Rogers is fine. You broke his nose but it’s being attended to, there will be no lasting damage.”

His breaths are coming sharp and fast, he doesn’t know when that started. He sinks to the floor, back pressed to the door. “JARVIS? Wh- what happened?”

“Captain Roger’s asked about something from your shared past. You probably had a flashback, and became unresponsive to any of your names or titles.”

Even the thought of Steve calling him-- makes him feel sick and shaky all over again. He can feel himself trembling. He wonders if he’s going to throw up.

“Steve went to shake your shoulder and you elbowed him. You then fled to your room, where you locked the door and didn’t move for a little under ten minutes. Steve went to your door, but once there seemed to change his mind and he walk down to the infirmary instead.”

“He’s okay.” He whispers.

“Yes, Captain Roger’s is fine.” JARVIS confirms.

“He’s okay.”

“Soldier, I think it would be in your best interest to focus on something else right now. Would you like me to call Mr. Wilson?”

He shakes his head, “No, just, just talk to me. How did you come to call me ‘soldier?’ and not- and not-” he can’t complete the sentence, overwhelmed by something totally separate from the fact that _holy shit. He just hit Steve. And the last time he hit Steve- the last time he hit Steve-_

JARVIS cuts off his thoughts, and he’s aware that some time has passed though he has no idea how long the interval was. “Responses to being called anything else has caused signs of distress. I am programed to avoid using first names, so I cycled through other titles I could think of, looking for one that did not cause such a reaction.”

“Why ‘Nobody’.” He asks, feeling curiosity winning over the gut churning fear. 

“If you noticed I mostly used that address in situations where further agitating you was extremely undesirable, before I discovered you don’t have a negative reaction to ‘Soldier’”.

“It is also, in case you don’t know, a reference to Homer’s Odyssey.”

He nods, jerkly without actually knowing what this “Odyssey” is.

JARVIS continues, “In that story the hero blinds and then confuses a Cyclops by telling him his name is ‘nobody’ so when the Cyclops goes to his friends for help and is asked, ‘who hurt you?’ he responds, ‘Nobody.’ And this causes enough of a distraction for the hero and his friends to escape.”

He almost smiles, maybe he does, he can’t tell. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

And at that he’s lost. “F-for… For telling me exactly what I asked for, and wanted to know, even though it was vague.”

There is a meaningful silence.

_Sometimes I feel like a nobody. And you remind me that I’m not. Or that it’s okay to want to be. I’m not sure._

 

His breathing is back under control, though his hands still spasm. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. Doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t know if someone’s going to knock on his door.

He lies on his back over the covers of his bed and pretends to be Nobody. It’s easy when he remembers that this isn’t his apartment, it’s Steve's. Which makes everything in it Steve’s. And that the building is actually owned by Tony. And that some stranger had designed the guest bedroom and picked out the colors and the patterns and the furniture.

This is a room that’s meant to be empty until it is needed. It is a room that doesn’t really belong to anybody if it doesn't belong to Steve or Tony.

He sleeps, dreamless. JARVIS doesn’t wake him. A knock at his door doesn’t wake him. No one comes for him. And no one would, he is, after all, a Nobody.


	7. Chapter 7

Natasha finds him the next day. He’s sitting up on the roof, looking over the barren garden. She hands him a rose, big an unfurled. He takes it without looking at her, half mouthing a thank you.

She sits with him in silence, in the cold, as he slowly dismantles the rose - pulling out each pedal one by one. He lines them up from largest to smallest, methodical.

 “Why did you do it?” She asks when he’s almost to the very center of the flower.

“I’m not sure. I- He asked me about the cold and I went away. And then he was very close, and JARVIS told me he called me by that name. So, um, I don’t actually know… what I was reacting to. It just- um, happened very uh fast.”

“Are you sorry?”

“Very. I’m trying um, not to break things. Hit things. I… I… I don’t like… it.”

She looks down at the rose lined up before him.

 

“Did I know you before?” He asks.

“Yes, during your time with the Russians.”

He hums, “Did you call me ‘Sasha’ then too?”

“Yes, is that a problem?”

“Not like the other name is a problem. I think I like it better than Winter. But I also don’t think I’m the person I was back then.”

“I know, I don’t need you to be.”

He sighs and leans toward her minutely.

“Do you want everyone to call you Sasha?”

“No… I- it’s almost right just… just...”

“It’s okay. You’ll come to a name in your own time.”

“Did I pick ‘Sasha’ or did you?”

“You did. You didn’t know much about Russian culture or much of anything beyond what you were taught in the Red Room. We’d meet up every so often and I’d bring a list of names and tell you about them, their history, what they mean. That kind of thing.”

“Do you know why I picked that name?”

Natasha shrugged, “I have a hunch but I couldn’t explain the logic to you. It’s short for both Alexander and Alexandra.”

He makes something of a face,  “I don’t think either of those fit.”

Natasha laughed, “You said something about that, at the time. That those were stupid names but the only people who’d … bother- would use, ah, the short form so it didn’t matter.”

“Where we, um…” He gestured between them.

“Lovers?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It was… complicated.”

He hums, not taking it as a “yes” but not taking it as a “no”, either. “Did you want to be?”

And Natasha’s mouth goes small. She’d been looking at the rose but now she raises her gaze to the horizon. “I don’t remember… It was a long time ago for me. I can’t think back to then without how I feel now seeping in. I know I wanted to be close to you, but I can’t remember what that meant at the time.”

He doesn’t ask the next logical question. He doesn’t know how he’d react to either answer. And he’s not scared of his reaction… he just… doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to know what her expectations of him might be.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve apologizes for startling him. He stutters out an apology about breaking Steve’s nose. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation but he knows that he doesn’t really have a choice. And he knows that even if he did, he’d be an unforgivably horrible person if he decided to ignore Steve.

_I really don’t want to be around you._

_Right now or?_

_Ever. I guess. I mean. I’d let you know if that changes but there are days that I just can’t fucking stand you and it’s getting more and more frequent._

Telling Steve he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, or whatever that conversation they didn’t have would have been about, would have been a way worse thing to do than refuse to talk to Steve. And it probably would have hurt him more than his nose being broken.

So once he’s finished with the awkward, monotone apology he just nods slowly a few times before heading back to his room. He starts spending a lot more time with Sam, almost without meaning to.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam tells him he should have moved some of the plants inside, to his room. Or that they could get him another room just for the flowers. 

He agrees that that is a very good idea. He misses his flowers and the simple, easy joy they brought him.

“You could plant new ones, now, before Spring.”

So he does, just a small bunch that are all just for him. Cosmos and the small, white flowers he can’t tell apart from the other types of small, white flowers. They are good to braid into his hair. He does it almost every night before he goes to sleep, effortlessly weaving it into his bedtime routine like it always belonged. And every morning he wakes up to the scent of the of the crushed, decaying petals.


	10. Chapter 10

“Is everything okay with you and Steve?” Sam says, putting his newspaper down and looking at him where he’s curled into the other end of the sofa. 

“Can we move to my flower room for this conversation?” He asks, cracking open an eye.

“Sure thing.”

He settles in front of his potted plants, Sam at his back, and snips two cosmos and several bunches of the white flowers. He starts braiding his hair, holds his breath, expecting to be told off. To be hit. To, after all these months be told that no, actually he’s not allowed good things, he’s not allowed to be happy.

Sam just sits crossed legged next to him and admires the flowers. “Is everything okay with you and Steve?”

“No.” He says, matter-o-fact, grateful to be prompted. “Sometimes I worry I hate him. Actually, most of the time I worry I hate him.”

Sam is quiet for so long that he’s finished braiding his hair and is starting to undo it just to be able to braid it again, to have something to do with his hands.

“That’s a lot worse than I was expecting. But okay, why?”

He sighed, “I just… I’m always… in that emotional pain? I’m always in some low level of it, like a 3, around Steve. And he doesn’t understand. And I don’t understand. And it’s been so hard to get him to just leave me alone and stop asking if I’m okay when I’m recuperating from that. I think I’ve just started to resent him. That he doesn’t understand. That he forces me to be around him even when it’s hurting me. And then I feel like an ass because I know that leaving him-” He tumbles over those last words, “hurts him.”

Sam hums in acknowledgement. He’s mostly done unbraiding when Sam says, “I wish I’d know of this problem before hand. How long have you felt this way.”

“I really became aware of it when I broke his nose, which, by the way, I’m still not sure what the, ‘what next’ thing of that is.”

“How do you mean.”

He lets the flowers fall from his hands and hair. “Sam. I broke. his nose. I could have seriously hurt him.”  

“You know JARVIS has measures in place to incapacitate you so you don’t seriously hurt anyone.”

“Yes, I know. I just… Sam, I can’t _believe_ I did that to him. I _assaulted_ him _._ Steve, Captain America, _the guy who thinks I’m his best friend._ I mean-” He chokes back a hysterical laugh then begs, “ _Sam_. _It feels like_ ** _no one_** _cares that. I. assaulted. him._ ”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“That’s not a good excuse now that I’m no longer brainwashed by HYDRA.”

Sam lets out a little lopsided smile. “What do you think should happen next?”

“Well I mean, we apologize but it didn’t make anything better. Can I lean against you?”

“Sure.”

He goes back to braiding his hair, his shoulder smashed against Sam's shoulder.

“Are you worried you’ll do it again?”

His fingers still, “I might be. I’m not sure. Though, that would have more to do with the fact that right now feeling like an awful person than anything else. I think... I want to think I have better control. And I want to think that this has nothing to do with Steve. ”

“We should talk to him about it.”

“It would hurt his feelings. I mean really, really hurt his feelings.”

“This is hurting you, you said.”

“Yeah.”

“Then we need, the three of us, to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t, and I won’t force you.”

“I get to choose.”

“Yes, but you have to make that choice tomorrow.”

He harrumphs, he won’t be able to make childish declarations that he doesn’t feel he can take back tomorrow. And Sam knows that. 


	11. Chapter 11

They agree to do it at the end of the week, which gives him three days completely to himself. Sam told Steve to leave him alone until then.

The first day he almost vibrates out of his skin.

 

The next two days he spends in the gym, climbing from the gymnastics equipment he’s shockingly unfamiliar with up to the rafters, hauling himself along until he’s at a spot that’s almost out of reach of JARVIS' camera’s and sensors but not quite.

He feels closest and most aware of the AI here, resting his face against the cold metal of the I beam.


	12. Chapter 12

They have the meeting in one of the common sitting areas, telling the rest of the team that they should avoid the space. Sam thinks it is important that the meeting happen in neutral territory.

He can’t read the emotions on Steve’s face, so he doesn't look at him.

“Now,” Sam says, “As I’ve already told you, we’re here so Winter can tell you something impor-”

“Being around you is hurting me.” He blurts before Sam can even finish. He can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eyes, the expressions that flash across Steve’s face. Disbelief, outrage, sad, hurt, before finally he pulls himself together and maintains a practiced, neutral expression.

He is very aware of each second passing in unsettling opposition to how they normally slide by without his awareness. _What now what now what now._ Is all he can think, his brain feels like it’s hyperventilating with the thought, though thankfully his breath stays even.

“Steve.” Sam prods.

“I- why?”

“Because you keep trying to force me into being the Bucky person. I am not the Bucky person. And all the time I can see it, when I pick out certain foods I can see if you know it was his favorite or if he hated it. I just, there are all these little cues you give off, and I know you don’t mean to, it’s just that I’m not him. And then I get thinking what if you put that can of soup there just to see if I’d pick it? And- and I just constantly get the sense that I am disappointing you by not being Bucky. And I don’t want to be him. Okay? I’m not him. And I hate that you’re disappointed in me, and disappointed in me over something so fucking stupid.” Every muscle in his body is clenched and he’s amazed he didn’t end the sentence by screaming. His tigh is starting to spasm with the tension.

And there’s hurt in Steve’s face again.

“I know that- that you’re not… him.”Steve says, helplessly.

He looks away. “You’re a constant reminder that you want me to be.” _That I was someone I’m not._ And that thought just baffles him.

“Sam, can I talk to you?” He turns abruptly. 

“Now?” Sam’s surprised.

“Yes, flower room.” He stands.

Steve looks on helpless and confused. Sam squeezes his shoulder and mouths “sorry” as he walks to the flower room.

Instead of braiding his hair like he normally does he paces by the windows instead.

“Don’t- come- touch me.” He says when Sams’ crossed halfway into the room.

“Can you-”

“Don’t come closer, don’t touch me.” He clarifies.

Sam nods. “So what was that?”

“I had a thought and I am very upset by the thought.”

“What was the thought.”

“Winter?”

“I thought, ‘You’re a constant reminder that  I was someone I’m not.’”

“Well… I suppose that’s a strange thought.”

He throws his arms into the air. He wants to punch the wall, knows the window could actually withstand it. (Doesn’t.)

“It’s okay.” Sam soothes.

“It’s not okay!” And he’s yelling now, breathing heavy, “It’s- It’s not okay and I don’t know _why_. Sam, I don’t know what that meant but it just… It’s important. It’s so fucking important and I don’t even know _why_.” He smashes his fists into his eyes and rubs vigrously.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Winter! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

He stops. “I don’t want to be called ‘Winter’.” He starts crying, slides to the floor and can’t stop crying.

“I know that you already know, ‘hay you’ isn’t going to be adequate. Can I come closer now?”

“Yes.” He gasps.

Sam is next to him in a heartbeat asking, “Can I touch you?”

He nods and is tentatively, slowly, engulfed in a hug. He thinks back on elbowing Steve and mentally cringes.

He doesn't know why this is so hard. He doesn't know why this is so hard. He doesn't know why this is so hard.

 

They have to reschedule the meeting.


	13. Chapter 13

That night he feels small in his dream. Or really, he feels exactly the size he wishes he was. He feels graceful, filled with a quiet confidence that might be what happiness feels like. He doesn’t remember what the dream was about as he wakes.

He’s not crying, wasn’t crying in the dream, but when he opens his eyes to his sparsely decorated room the sense of peace the dream had brought him shatters. He feels so sad he can’t move though he knows getting up and looking at the flowers in his hair will make him feel better.

“JARVIS?” He calls.

“Yes soldier.”

“I’m a little stuck.”

“Would you like me to get Sam?”

“Actually, can you um, I want to be able to talk to Steve, but I don’t want him to be in the same room.” He can’t think what the word for that is.

“Of course.” JARVIS says.

When he hears the click that he thinks means the connections open he says, “Steve, you there?”

“Yes, I’m here, what is it.” There’s something in Steve's voice.

He doesn’t have the energy to analyze it though. He can ask JARVIS later. JARVIS was sometimes more accurate about people’s emotion than he is.

He clears his throat. “Um. I think I wanted to ask you something about Bucky.”

He can hear Steve almost choke on an indrawn breath. “Yes?”

“Um, I don’t exactly remember. Give me a minute. JARVIS, can you project a timer on to the wall?”

He can hear Steve chuckling at that.

A timer appears as requested, he doesn’t let it make him feel rushed.

“I wanted to ask if Bucky was graceful?” he asks, blurts, really - not even five seconds in.

The silence on the other end lasts much longer.

“Bucky was charismatic, very caring and kind. He moved with a great deal of confidence and self-assurance, even if he didn’t feel it at the time.”

He thought over this response, before closing his eyes and asking again, “Was Bucky graceful?”

Steve sighs, “Yes.”

“Why is that hard to admit?”

“I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, thanks Steve.” He mouthed ‘cut the call’ to JARVIS and the room was silent once more.

The counter was still going and the stillness in the room felt oppressive in less than a minute, “JARVIS, turn that off, and where’s Sam?”

The display shut off as soon as he’d requested it and JARVIS said, “Sam is in the kitchen having breakfast, shall I let him know you’ll be join him?”

He sat up, “Yes, do that please.”

 

 

Sam was watching him not quite expectantly when he walks into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, just ate his own meal in silence and enjoyed the feeling of his company.

They wash the dishes that had piled up together, he leans against Sam while they work. It's comfortable.


	14. Chapter 14

A week later he asks Steve to go through some Bucky’s personal effects. Steve gives him free rein over his apartment and goes jogging with Sam. 

He studies Bucky's face (his face) in the photographs for a long time, (Looking for something he doesn't find.) before moving to the dog tags. He, tentatively, likes these and asks Steve if he can keep them once the two have returned from their run.

Steve is surprised but agrees. 

Most days, he wears them under his shirts, the cold metal against his sternum. Somedays, when he's tempted to scratch the name and number off like he did the star, he has to lock them in his bedside drawer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick POV change

 

“Sam, what do you think it means?”

“Him taking Bucky’s dog tags?”

Steve still inwardly cringes to hear Sam talking about… him like that. Even if… it’s complicated. “Yes, that, and wanting to just see that stuff in the first place. And Sam, he asked me a while back if Bucky was graceful.” The name feels wrong on his tongue, at least, spoken like that. He trying to adjust, he is. I just hurts to much, to see some different man wearing his best friends face and know, for sure now, that he’ll never have his best friend back.

“Honestly I’m not sure what I think. It could mean a lot of things. Mostly, I think now that you’ve given him space he can engage with the person he used to be on his own terms.”

“Do you think-”

“Don’t get your hopes up Steve. You have to let him be his own person, even if that person isn’t and never will be the one you want him to be.”

Steve nods, "I know that..."

Sam nudges his shoulder as the walk their last lap around central park. "Don't beat yourself up about this, okay? Don't look to deeply into it. You might scare him off."

Steve sighs, "Yeah..."

"I'm sorry, man. I know I can't even begin to understand how much this must hurt."

"He doesn't even look a day older." Steve takes a deep breath, "Not like Peggy..."

Sam wraps an arm around his back since can't reach up to Steve shoulders. "Yeah, man. Yeah."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV back to normal

He absently pulls at the dog tags and rubs his fingers across them so  frequently that the name “James” as fades from the metal surface. He feels horrible about it.


	17. Chapter 17

“Can I hug you?” He asks Sam a little out of the blue.

“Sure.”

He wraps his arms under Sam’s and leans curled up against Sam’s chest, trying to feel small. He’s still for a while, waiting to see if Sam will tense. Eventually he hums and pulls away, deciding he’s had enough.

“Thanks.” He whispers, surprised to find that his voice is shot and his cheeks are wet.  “I, uh, wanted to let you know that I was going to leave the tower. I’ll have my phone with me, so don’t worry. Okay?” He whipes at his eyes, not caring that Sam is watching him.

“What for?” Sam asks. “You don’t have to tell me, it’s just that you’ve rarely left the tower before coming here.”

“I'm tired of all the clothes I wear having the SHIELD logo. Especially since SHIELD doesn't even exist any more. And I’m tired of the rest of my clothes being one’s Stark picked out for me. So I'm going... to fix that”

Sam laughs, “Can I give you a hug now?” He says, satisfaction ringing in his voice.

He nods.

“S’ bout damn time.” Sam says into his hair.

He laughs. 

Sam pulls back.

He says, “Could you just, tell me where it will be the least crowded. And also, I want to pay with cash, so about how much of that will I need?”


	18. Chapter 18

He makes sure he shaves that morning. It’s not something he pays that much attention to, as he rather likes the feeling of stubble. But today is special. He brings about 100 dollars more than Sam suggested, just in case. He heads out about seven am to end up at a Target in the suburbs around eight.

On the commute over Bucky plays over the conversation he’d had with Sam after.

 

“I can pick out anything I want, right?”

“Anything.” Sam confirms.

“You’re sure?”

“100%.”

“It’s allowed?”

“Yes, it’s allowed.”

“You won’t get mad?”

Sam doesn’t laugh or ask what this is all about. He knows better. “I promise I won’t be mad.” He says with great conviction.

“Will Steve be mad?”

“I don’t think he will be.”

“And it’s okay?”

“Do you need another hug?”

“Yes.”

 

He's connected to JARVIS on his phone, it is going to be fine. He considers something, and texts, “Is there anything I could do to make you mad at me? Do you even get mad?”

“The comparison of my emotions to yours, or other humans, is quite fraught. I have a range of emotions, and I have experienced what I would call rage, both the cold detached version and the hot, over processed one. The only thing that could inspire such an emotion was if you were to attack Tony Stark or Pepper Potts in cold blood.”

“I do, however, have a vast array of other emotions. Would it be helpful if I shared with you what inspires the negative ones?”

“Yes.”

“I feel very mild amounts of disappointment every time you needlessly over react, though I do know that I don’t completely understand everything that is happening to you and I should remain compassionate, that emotion is still there and directed at you. I feel more generally sad when you are hurting or when you, or any of the other residents in the tower, are in conflict with each other. Especially conflict that could be solved if I broke confidentiality. I find this predicament… stressful.”

He smiles and texts, “Can this conflict be fixed like that?”

“Please clarify to which conflict you refer to.”

He pauses at that, “I’m honestly not sure. I hoped this would be like the ‘nobody’ thing.”

“Everyone trusts you to know who you are, Soldier. You will be able to tell them in time.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“Tell me more about your emotions.”

“Whenever you, or anyone for that matter, causes damage to the tower I get exasperated. This is doubly true for Tony.”

He's smiling again.

“I have a couple of different fears, would you like to hear them?”

They go on like that until it’s his stop.

“Thank, JARVIS. Got to go.” He texts as he exits the platform.

He takes a deep breath and sighs.


	19. Chapter 19

He doesn’t go straight to the store. Instead he stops at a drug store in the same outlet mall. It's not strictly part of his plan, as much as he has a plan. But it's not strictly against it either. He picks up a pack of gum and a magazine that advertises how to find different types of makeup in “his color” whatever that means.  He’s **not** going to chicken out of this.

He memorizes the relevant pages and then throws the thing in the trash. After, he takes a deep breath braces himself for the Target.

It’s deserted, or, all most, like Sam had promised these stores would be between eight and lunch hour. He doesn’t start in the women’s section but goes straight for the men's. He starts filling his cart up with skinny jeans he's almost certain will fit. Then he heads to the women's section, hiding his finds between the men's clothes. It feels stupid. It feel like a flawed plan. It feels like there's no way this would work.

He knows he could just lie and say he's buying a gift for his sister or whatever, but he’d rather avoid all human interaction all together. Which is why he goes back to the men’s area to try everything on, since, for some reason the changing rooms there didn't have any employees watching over it making sure you didn’t take in more than eight items at a time. He goes through this process several more times until he figures out that he isn’t going to figure out what size of women’s jeans fit him. And then it's lunch hour.

He waits until the rush dies down to brave the makeup and jewelry sections.

It's worse than gliding through the women’s section, he feels like someone is going to pop up behind in any second and tell him he isn’t allowed. Scold him. Hit him. Hurt him.

It's taking all his training not to glance over his shoulder ever five seconds. To shout with his body language that he doesn't belong here. Is an intruder. When he can't tear his eyes off the mirrors against the walls, watching his back, he decides he needs to go. He puts the what he'd been holding (a plastic bracelet he'd accidentally cracked in his rising panic) and maneuvers to the check out.  He can deal with that section later. He musters up his scowl-iest expression he can and hopes the woman ringing up his items won't say anything.

She gives him a bland smile and packs everything into bags, making small talk, not seeming to care that he isn't responding.

“Have a nice day!” She chirps.

He nods at this. 

Once he's outside, in the fresh air, walking toward the train, he takes a deep breath. That... went okay. Or at least, it could have gone a lot worse. He was expecting it to be worse.

He got almost everything he’d meant to, as far as he’d meant to pick up anything specific.


	20. Chapter 20

He texts JARVIS as he’s approaching the tower, “I’ve had a really long day and I’d like it if you told the others to just leave me alone for a couple of hours.”

JARVIS responds mere moments later, “Done, Soldier.” 

He goes straight to his bedroom without even stopping to observe if anyone is in the common areas while he is passing. He plops the bags on his closet floor and settles in next to them, closing the door.

“JARVIS?” He asks.

“Yes, Soldier?”

He can hear himself breathing in the dark. It feels different, to be back here, mission over, with, he can’t stop thinking _contraband,_ hidden in his closet. “What’s your surveillance like in here?”

“Minimal. Just the monitoring of your vital  signs I am capable through the entire tower. Like the bathrooms there are no cameras here.”

JARVIS has already told him that he can ask that the cameras and microphones be turned out at anytime, but being hold up in his closet where there aren’t any camera’s at all feels safer.

He separate the clothes from the men's section from the women’s and further separates the dresses from the less overtly feminine things. 

JARVIS asks him several times through this process if he’s alright, which centers him and makes him realize that he’s breathing has become short and rapid and he feels dizzy. He always takes several deep breaths and says, “Fine, fine, please, don’t get Sam.”

At one point, running beautiful lace panties through his fingers he can feel himself start to cry.

“JARVIS?” He asks.

“Yes, Soldier?”

“If- if I hyperventilate and blacked out, would you be required to get Sam?”

“Only if you stopped breathing, there by needed resuscitation, which is _highly_ unlikely.”

“What if I went blank?”

“Still no.”

“Okay.” He goes back to work, placing the women’s underthings in a completely separate bag.

He emerges from the closet once that task is done, leaving the bag of feminine things behind and pulling the men’s ones out with him. He locks the closet and stocks his drawers with his new clothes, removing the generic SHIELD ones to be… donated? He doesn't know what’s going to happen to them and he doesn’t really care. 

When that's done he rests on his bed spread and breathes deeply.

He muses over new places he can pick out make up, remembers that the drug store had a section, not as big as the box store, but still. He mentally kicks himself for just not picking something out there.

Then he muses about choices, about how vexing it was to be asked about things he didn’t care about, how frustrating it was to choose. And then, how nice, when it came to these clothes, that maybe he’ll never wear, maybe he’s not actually allowed, to pick: patterns, color, cut, style. He lets out a long exhale.

He’s going to have to start talking again soon. He's going to have to tell Sam, and probably Steve. The thought makes his eyes burn and he wipes his nose.

But he doesn't have to right now, at least.


	21. Chapter 21

He can’t sleep in his old pajamas. They don’t feel right. Especially now he knows that what he really wants to wear is just tucked in the back of the closet. He changes into it, baby blue fleece pajama bottoms and a white, form fitting tank top trimmed with lace across the bottom and neckline.

He curls into the covers again, dozing off.

 

A sense of panic wakes him up at 5 in the morning. He changes back into sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. 

It doesn’t help.

“Is anyone else awake?” He asks JARVIS.

“Agent Romanoff-”

“Never mind.”

He can’t explain why he doesn’t want to talk to her. Why hearing her name makes him flinch. He flips his pillow over. He still can’t sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

It’s much the same the next night and the night after. JARVIS is probably getting worried. He knows that not sleeping well isn’t enough for JARVIS to alert the others of anything like he knows that he’s not going to be punished for wanting things (wanting this). (Probably.)

The fourth increasingly sleepless night he pads over to Natasha's room. He's still in the pastel pajamas instead of the SHIELD issue ones. He stands in front of her door for a long time, not sure what to do, why he came here, what he wants to say.

“Can I... Can I come in." He asks, the adds, "Don’t get up... Just... Can I come in?”

The door unlocks with an audible click that was probably made by JARVIS for his benefit and not the lock.   

"I'm awake." Natasha announces. She's sleeping on her side, not facing the door. He knows this is a sign of trust.

He wanders over to the bed, watches her silhouette. He's lost for words and thought. 

"What's wrong?" She asks after he's been standing with his knees against her bed for a few minutes. He's grateful that she doesn't flip to her back or look at him.

"I haven't been sleeping well." He whispers.

"I noticed."

Something in his chest eases. "May I um... lie with you?" He settles on.

"Yes."

He climbs into her bed. It's warm and soft and smells like her. He breaths in deeply, comforted, though he can't explain why.

"Natasha..."

She makes an affirmative humming noise.

"I settled on a name, but I don't know if I'm ready to tell Sam and Steve."

"Mmh-hmm? Do you want to tell me?"

"Yeah, it's Jamie."

"That's a cute name. Do you want me to use it, at least where the other's can't hear?"

He has to think about that, because he's decided he does like it when Natasha calls him Sasha and doesn't want her to stop. "I don't know." He says.

"Let me know when you make up your mind." She tells him.

 

In the pre dawn hours he slips out of Natasha's bed. She pretends he didn't wake her up. He sneaks back to his own room and changes, putting the pajamas back into the bottom of his closet.


	23. Chapter 23

A few nights later he finds himself back in Natasha’s bed, with Natasha curled around his back. She whispers to him in Russian, stories about their shared past. And it makes his heart race, and it makes fear claw at his throat. But she’ll ask him, “Sasha, Jamie, do you want me to go on?” Once in English then again in Russian.

And he’ll take a moment, and breathe, and nod.

 

And he’s not really avoiding Steve. They go to the Smithsonian together so he can reclaim the things that belonged to Bucky in the warehouses. They don’t have much there. Most of his things his mother gave to his sisters before she died.

 

He goes out and buys make up. (Four sticks of lipstick in varying shades of dark red and purple, a foundation, two pre matched cases of eye shadow, and eye liner.) He adds this to his calming down routine. Braid his hair (flowers optional), apply the lip stick, the foundation, the eye shadow, and so on. Until the face in the mirror looks like his (looks sweet and lovely and gentle) and not like the Bucky persons.

Then he removes it. Layer and layer, until he is the person he's expected to be.

He needs the routine less and less now. (At least, he doesn't need it to calm down. He still needs it to feel at home in his skin.) Sometimes he goes through it just when he’s bored, or is planning to be on his own for a few hours. On those occasions he wears one of the dresses he picked out and dances, skirt spinning, to modern music, expanding his list of favorites.


	24. Chapter 24

He sleeps in Natasha’s bed, in her arms, more often then he does is own. And they should probably talk about this. He should probably talk to someone about this.

“When you knew me…”

“Hmm?”

“Was I um…”

“Yeah?”

His throat feels dry and stuck. “I don’t know… I don’t… words.” He says, helplessly.

“It’s okay.” She whispers.

 

A few days later, on a night he’s slept in his own room, he’s finds two pamphlets that have been shoved under his door. One says “Gender Identities” across a purple, white, and green background. It makes a lot of things make a lot of sense. The second is a list of pronouns. He gets bored reading half way through and tries not to worry about if he’s _supposed_ to change how he refers to himself. (He mostly succeeds.)

 

The next night he crawls under Natasha’s covers with out asking. She rolls over to hold him, and he turns to face her, turns into her embrace instead of away.

“How do I tell Steve and Sam that I’m non-binary?”

“You say, ‘Hey, Steve, hey, Sam. I wanted to let you know that I am not a man and I am not a woman. And that my name is Jamie and my pronouns are…'”

He mouths “He, him, his.” To himself.

“Jamie, Sasha, what are your pronouns?” Natasha asks.

“Can I keep the… ones I have now?”

“Of course. So you’d tell them, ‘but I’d still like you to call me he, him, and his.’”

He feels like a weight has been taken off his chest. Until suddenly it feels like it’s crashing back down and his breath hitches.

“Sasha, Jamie?”

He exhales, slow and purposeful. “Do you think Steve will take it okay?” He asks, his voice cracks and his eyes burn.

“I can’t know that. But I think he’ll be happy if you’re happy. Do you want me to be there?”

He nods against her.

“It’s okay.” She soothes, whispering into his hair. “It’s okay, beautiful, _beautiful_ Jamie.” She repeats the second “beautiful” in Russian.

He feels his muscles relaxing, the dizzying worry draining away. “I um… I like that you call me both Jamie and Sasha. You should keep doing that.”

“Okay.”

“And um… Natasha?”

“Mmh-hmm?”

He takes a deep breath. “I um… I think I love you. And I think I don’t want to have sex with you. Is that…?”

“That’s perfectly fine.” She says, and kisses the top of his head. “ _My beautiful Sasha. That’s fine. I love you, too._ ”

And then he’s crying. And he’s surprised to find, he doesn’t hurt. Not here, not know. Not in his fluffy fleece pajamas. Not in Natasha’s arms with her running her fingers through his loose hair. Not with her whispering. “My beautiful Sasha.” And “My beautiful Jamie.” Over and over again, alternating between English and Russian.

He drifts to sleep, cheeks wet, with a smile on his face.

 

(And Natasha is right, Sam and Steve take it okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> Now with fanart (by me) http://dusty-soul.tumblr.com/post/130565934956/and-then-its-winter-and-there-are-no-flowers#notes
> 
> \--
> 
> Feel free to message or follow me on tumblr at dusty-soul.tumblr.com


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